


Fighting and Free

by AideStar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AO3 destroyed my formatting per usual, Angels, Blood, Demons, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Canon, also theres nothing super romantic relationshippy here, but i believe theyre dating so, i love these boys so much, i tagged it as slash anyway, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 16:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AideStar/pseuds/AideStar
Summary: It was the third week of the rest of their lives, and Aziraphale and Crowley had barely left each other’s side. After the Apoca-wasn’t, the trials, and near discorporation, the two were happy to have a break--and especially happy to spend the break together. Tensions were beginning to fall, and Crowley found himself drawn to Aziraphale’s shop day after day, nearly everyday, even to just sit in companionable silence.It was nice and safe and, as such, Crowley couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something bad was just around the corner.---Or, Hastur comes to settle a personal score and Crowley is a little too sure of himself.





	Fighting and Free

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've fallen in love with Good Omens, which means I just HAD to add to the fics here. I hope you enjoy it and please leave a comment if you did, they make my day! I'm sorry if the formatting is terrible, I format everything perfectly when I write the fic and put it thru an AO3 Google Docs HTML converter script but it always loses my line indents :( oh well  
> (the title comes from Prince's of the Universe by Queen, because I couldn't come up with anything else. Queen's lyrics fit so well with Crowley's entire plot line though, so it's fitting)

It was the third week of the rest of their lives, and Aziraphale and Crowley had barely left each other’s side. After the Apoca-wasn’t, the trials, and near discorporation, the two were happy to have a break--and especially happy to spend the break together. Tensions were beginning to fall, and Crowley found himself drawn to Aziraphale’s shop day after day, nearly everyday, even to just sit in companionable silence.

It was nice and safe and, as such, Crowley couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something bad was just around the corner. He’d never been so… happy, and dear Satan if anyone found out how very happy he may just perish on the spot in embarrassment. It was a feeling he’d never had before, or at least one that had never lasted for more than an afternoon or evening, before Hell or his duty forced him back to reality. He’d been drawn to this temptation for millennia, the safe and welcoming presence of his favourite angel, and he was still wary enough to not fully give in. He’d never been left alone before, and after three weeks it still felt like a very delicate peace, so he held back.

Aziraphale did the same, in a similarly measured way. They both feared the wrath of their respective Hosts, even with the promise of the future ahead and the possibility they may be left alone. As Crowley slowly began to move in, one plant, one jacket, one shoe at a time (and Aziraphale really did wonder at how the demon managed to leave just _one_ shoe), the delicate peace began to settle into hope of lasting. The two moved to sitting beside each other on the couch during nightly drinks and animated conversation, pinkie’s brushing, hands lingering, blushes spreading over unspoken confessions. It all felt so new, and so right, and so relieving to _finally_ be able to express. But of course, Crowley could never be sure, always the cautious pessimist, and so the angel sat back and waited patiently for his friend to relax.

It had only been three weeks, and Crowley was still a bit jumpy, a tad shaken from the fire and the trial and the fight. He was too anxious to sleep, not like he needed to sleep but he did enjoy it. For the second morning in a row the demon awoke with limbs sore and tangled on Aziraphale’s couch, a soft blanket tucked around him. He blinked up at the ceiling, heart fluttering, taking in the warmth and the smell of tea in the kitchenette across the room. It all felt so right, so… well, ineffable, as Aziraphale would say.

“‘Moring, Zira.” Crowley greeted the angel as he stretched in the doorway. Said angel was sat at a small table, spectacles on his nose and book in front of him, sipping his tea. He smiled, and Crowley felt an odd warmth wrap around his chest.

“Good morning, dear.” Aziraphale replied, and gestured to the fresh black coffee he’d prepped for the demon. Crowley crooked a small smile back and they sat together, sunlight streaming through the window above the sink, drinking in comfortable silence.

“I think I’m going to head over to my flat for a bit today, make sure the mail isn’t piling up and all…” Crowley drawled, sipping at his coffee. Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, peeking up quickly from his book as if he wanted to say something. Crowley cocked an eyebrow and the angel sat up straighter.

“Well, um, if you wouldn’t mind… would you like to join me for lunch, perhaps? Or not, if you’re going to be busy! No worries,” Aziraphale quickly backtracked, cheeks turning slightly pink. Crowley grinned, leaning back in his chair.

“Lunch sounds great, angel.” Crowley replied easily, managing to suppress a blush of his own. “It’s a date.”

The angel ducked back into his book then, the tips of his ears burning, and Crowley chuckled. He did it on purpose, calling it a date, simply for this reaction. Aziraphale had always been so easy to tease, a fact Crowley took advantage of and found quite endearing. He finished up his coffee, gathered his things, and left the bookshop with the promise to meet there again around noon for lunch. As the demon sped to his flat in the Bently he tried to convince himself the pounding in his chest was from adrenaline, and definitely had nothing to do with a certain date with a certain angel.

The flat was both immaculately clean and musty at once, much to Crowley’s chagrin. The plants, or those left in the flat, were as prim as always, but the fine layer of dust that coated his shelves just would not do. He easily snapped his fingers, clearing the dust but not quite fixing the stale air. It would do, as Crowley didn’t intend to spend much time here today, nor the next day or the next week, if he could manage it. He paced through the halls swiftly, looking over his carefully arranged and sparse belongings to check they remained in their proper location. It was paranoia, but for a good reason, as who could really blame the demon for being cautious of uninvited visitors after the stunt he’d pulled. Thankfully nothing was out of place, so Crowley gathered up the few letters he’d received and crossed to his study.

He hadn’t really needed to leave Aziraphale to check his mail or flat, but it made for a nice excuse. An excuse because, the moment Crowley had awoken that morning, he’d sensed something wrong. The mail excuse and lunch date plans had given him the window he needed to investigate, and so here he was, waiting. Crowley knew there was someone coming to see him today, wherever the demon happened to be, and thankfully his flat proved to be a decent meeting spot. After a few minutes of pretending to read his junk mail, the presence manifested itself outside his door, and Crowley tensed as the bolt on the door slid itself open.

The demon evenly stepped into his living room, smiling with no honesty at the uninvited guest.

“Hastur! How great to see you,” Crowley grit out, trying to look at ease. Hastur gazed in his hateful, blank way across at Crowley, his eyes piercing. The hairs on his neck stood up, but Crowley ignored his hammering heart and prickling skin.

“Crowley.” Hastur said, and stared. There was about ten feet between the two demons, enough that there’d be time to run or attack if necessary. As it is, Crowley knows exactly what’s going on, and the thought sits heavy on his mind.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Crowley continued. “I thought Down There had had their fill of me for the time being?”

“I’ve come of my own volition today.” Hastur stated, eyes carefully following Crowley. “I’ve come to finish the job.”

“Awe, really? Such a shame really,” Crowley sneered, slowly moving his hand behind his back to thumb at the letter opener trapped there. A letter opener gifted by Aziraphale after the Apoca-wasn’t, blade blessed for protection. “And here I thought we were friends.”

Without another word Hastur lunged across the room, just missing Crowley as he stepped aside. Crowley never was one much for fighting, preferring wit and charm over the blade. He didn’t have more than one trick up his sleeve this time, his good traps having already been sprung on the other previously. Hastur glared furiously as Crowley stepped back further, crouching slightly in defense.

“What’s wrong, Hastur? Not fasst enough?” Crowley hissed, hoping it came across as threatening despite it being a fear response in reality. Crowley dodged another lunge, trying to assess whether Hastur had a weapon on him or had planned to just rip him limb from limb. Before he could get a better look he had to jump back again, the surprise making him fall back into his couch. He rolled to the side as Hastur slashed a clawed hand at the upholstery, heart leaping into his throat at the close call.

In the closeness Crowley saw the flash of something strapped to Hastur’s side,deducing that the demon either had a gun or a knife, neither option very appealing. As Hastur spent a second dislodging his claw from the couch, Crowley extracted the letter opener from his waistband, keeping it hidden as he stepped back. Hastur’s eyes flared in fury, sending a spike of fear through Crowley that nearly froze him in place. The threat assessed, Crowley tried to grip some confidence within himself, his smirk of confidence becoming more real.

After a few more minutes of dodging, lashing, and tossing Crowley’s living room about the two demons were breathing heavily. Crowley held his side, the worst of the slashes from Hastur’s claws resting there, and the other gripped his arm, dark blood oozing from a gash caused by the letter opener. As they stood they were equals in strength and speed, but Crowley knew he would win. He had no doubts. It just might take a minute to happen. Hastur growled in rage and flung himself at Crowley, who laughed as he dodged.

“What made you think you’d be able to take me on alone,” Crowley huffed in amusement, eyes sharp and narrowed on his target. “Have you learned nothing from--”

And it was at this very moment that Crowley realized his mistake, because as he was boasting, as he does, Hastur had circled until Crowley was forced into a corner. When the attacked launched himself this time, instead of a calculated dodge to the side of back, Crowley found he had no opening to escape.

With a clatter, Hastur tackled Crowley to the floor, clawed nails piercing fabric and skin. Crowley roared in frustration, wrestling to remove himself from under the other, but the claws in his shoulders held him down steadfast. Hastur breathed a laugh, claws digging in and down, opening deep wounds in Crowley’s collar. He could feel the pain as the demonic poison on Hastur’s claws sunk in, preventing the wounds from closing too fast.

However, Crowley was anything if not resilient, and with a grunt he shoved the letter opener straight up into Hastur’s chest. The demon howled, letting go enough that Crowley could toss himself off and over, pinning Hastur to the hardwood. The blade sizzled and glowed as it pierced into the demonic flesh, eliciting screams as it easily cut upward through the ribs and chest. Crowley grinned, exhausted and relieved, as Hastur thrashed below him. He thought this was the end, that he’d won and in a few moments Hastur would melt into the floorboards and he’d be free.

These thoughts were premature though, as Crowley realized when a flash of metal altered him too late to the other’s plan. A resounding crack sounded throughout the apartment as the small gun Hastur carried fired up into Crowley’s stomach. Before he felt the pain, the shock, Hastur threw him hard. Crowley landed hard and slid across the floor, breath wheezing out of him with the force. He tried to suck in a breath but the air caught in his throat as the searing pain rose from the bullet. It was lodged in his flesh, burning and sizzling, and Crowley realized in horror that it was made from silver. Hastur stood above him, boot landing hard on his sternum. Crowley cried out, Hastur pressing down until his ribs groaned and cracked and finally _snapped_.

Now, it wasn’t that Crowley needed to breathe, nor that he really had a heart or digestive tract (or rather, he didn’t need these things, but he had them anyway, just for fun). However, at this very moment, Crowley’s lungs scream, his heart skips out of rhythm, and the bullet sears into his guts. He can feel the too-hot slickness of his blood spilling onto the floor with each convulsion and his vision swims. In a last ditch effort of desperation, Crowley reaches up and sinks his claws into Hastur’s ankle, as deep and hard as he can. The demon above him only chuckles, albeit hoarsely, and presses down harder.

Hastur disengages his foot and then rears back, kicking Crowley’s side and shoulders and even his arms where they come up to defend himself. Crowley’s head goes foggy, vision swimming, blacks dotting the corners when a blow snaps his head to the side. After quite a while Hastur stands fully, taking in the bloodied, broken demon below him. Crowley’s head lolls, but he shoots a withering glare upwards anyway, wheezing breaths and winces all he can manage. Hastur chuckles darkly, stooping down to glare into Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley can feel the cold barrel of the gun come to rest on his forehead, can make out the smug grin Hastur is giving him as he kneels over him.

“I can’t wait to see the life drain from those disgusting little eyes of yours.” Hastur intones, flicking back the safety on the gun. Crowley doesn’t move, doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t so much as blink. He holds a death glare with Hastur, still determined, still sure he won’t lose. Hastur finds this incredibly amusing.

“The feeling is mutual.” Crowley manages, then, using the last of his strength, he thrusts the letter opener straight into Hastur’s throat.

The gun drops away, Hastur pulls up quickly with a strangled cry, and Crowley sighs. There’s shuffling a few feet away, gurgling, sizzling, then silence. Crowley breathes in as slowly and carefully as he can, the overwhelming burnt rubber smell of demon flesh and the sourness of blood coloring the air. Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, blinks furiously up at the still spinning ceiling, and grunts in frustration. His hands list up and over his partially collapsed chest, then down to the slickness of the bullet hole in his stomach. He flinches hard as he makes contact with the edges of the wound, the flesh there impossibly hot and twinging with pain. Crowley gulps in a few ragged breaths and steadies himself.

He can’t quite feel his left arm, but his right is still working well enough. He steels himself, knowing he’ll have to move very soon if he expects to survive this. The ground around him is slick with his own blood, cooling ominously as the seconds tick by. He grits his teeth and lifts his head slightly, peering around to find the bathroom. The door is across the room, slightly ajar thank Satan, and Crowley lets out a shaky sigh. Hastur is nothing more than a smouldering puddle to his left, the blessed letter opener resting at its center. Crowley begins to long and painful process of dragging himself one-armed across his floor, leaving a trail of dark blood in his wake.

After an eternity he reaches the bathroom, pushing through the door and lying on the cool tile. He can feel himself slipping, whether that be into unconsciousness, death, or his other form he can’t be sure. He blinked hard, trying to stay awake as he pulls the measly first aid kit from under his sink. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t keep a proper kit as his flat, but that he used it so often (what with the frequency he found himself injured for work) that it was rather lacking at this very moment. He’d been shot a few months ago, nothing serious really, and had used the proper supplies then and forgotten to replace it all. So now the kit was made up of supplies for minor injuries, and that would have been enough for the claw wounds and scratches, but nothing near enough for the bullet. Before Crowley could will himself to sit up, to stick his fingers in the wound and extract the bullet by hand, or even think anything beyond vague self hatred at his mistake, his vision went entirely black.

Now, it wasn’t unlike Crowley to forget plans, sleep for a century, or arrive late, but in the three weeks since the Apoca-wasn’t the demon had yet to do any of these things. They’d spent some time apart for sure, but never more than a day or so, which quite pleased Aziraphale if he was honest. He’d always longed for more contact with the other, and quite disliked the years they spent apart. Aziraphale had consciously loved Crowley for over 70 years now, ever since the day the demon had shown up and saved his life--and his books--from assured destruction. Since then he’d had to hide his love (which he knew Crowley had done as well for much longer, judging from the aura that flowed from him over the centuries) and was more than happy now that perhaps he could stop hiding. It hadn’t been very long though, and he’d seen the stress and worry that still gripped Crowley, so he didn’t make any moves quite yet.

He was happy to bide his time, since it seemed they’d have a lot more of it now.

However, it was now quite past their decided meeting time, and Aziraphale had begun to pace in his lounge, tense and gazing every so often at the phone. He really didn’t want to bother Crowley, especially since it had only been about an hour since he’d said he’d be coming, and he wasn’t looking forward to being snapped at if everything was truly okay. It was like the demon, he tried to reason, it just hadn’t been like him for the last few weeks. Things had changed, situations had changed. He wondered how bad it would be if he called, or if he just popped on over to make sure everything was okay. He’d be forgiven eventually, even if it cost him the pleasant lunch they’d planned and a few nights of drinks.

Before he could second guess himself, he reached for the phone and dialed Crowley’s number. The phone rang once, twice, and the angel tensed, his finger curling in the wire. After a moment it flipped to voicemail, and with a shuddering breath Aziraphale spoke after the beep.

“Crowley, dear, I was just calling to, ah, check in I suppose. It’s been a moment since we planned to meet up for lunch and I just wanted to make sure everything is alright…” Aziraphale sucked in a breath and waited, waited for Crowley to pick up. Nothing happened. “I’ll, uh, see you soon, I hope.” He set the receiver back on its pedestal and sighed, worry tangling in his stomach. This was like Crowley, he knew, from before. It just didn’t feel _right_ anymore to be ignored or left to wait or abandoned without warning. This wasn’t like Crowley anymore, and it made him very anxious.

Aziraphale made his decision, buttoning on his jacket and locking the shop up behind him. He would go over to Crowley’s flat and invite himself in, as the demon did frequently to the bookshop. Consequences be darned, Aziraphale was going to make sure his friend was alright. The walk was chilly but quick, the demon not living too far away, as if he wanted to make sure the angel could reach him without driving. The apartment building loomed overhead, dark and very Crowley, and Aziraphale knew as soon as he set his eyes on it that something had happened.

There was a very intense demonic aura radiating from the structure, and upon closer inspection Aziraphale recognized it as being a protection ward. He could feel the familiar demonic power of his friend, one he recognized very well by now, and one that easily parted to accommodate the angel. Crowley, in all their years as friends, had never directed his power or resistance towards Aziraphale, both of them being entities of similar strength and opposite power. Heaven and Hell had sent them both specifically to earth because of their matched strengths, despite the fact that Aziraphale hated to use his angelic command and Crowley never entertained the idea of harming the angel. This ward was up to protect Crowley from someone else, or perhaps to protect other humans from whatever had occurred in his flat, and Aziraphale felt his blood run cold in fear.

As fast as he could, Aziraphale found himself in front of the slightly ajar door to flat 6, his heart pounding and hands shaking. Within the entryway he could see the plants, the dim room ahead, and the scent hit him. Burnt rubber and singed hair and metal, something he hadn’t smelled in millennia, likely not since the Great War. The smell of a demon’s blood, their burnt flesh, death. Aziraphale burst into the main room, taking in the torn couch, the tipped table, and the black stain. Along the floor was a dried smear of black blood leading to the bathroom. The angel could sense Crowley there, but he edged over carefully, afraid that there may be other demons in the flat.

The sight in the bathroom made his breath catch in his throat. Crowley laid on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of his own blood, looking as if he were on death’s door. Aziraphale felt his heart stop, breath shudder. He fell to his knees beside Crowley, not caring as the blood seeped into his pants. The demon was still, but with a quick and shaky assessment Aziraphale noted he was breathing and his heart, though very slowly and weakly, was still beating. As usual, Crowley was dressed in mostly black, making the source of his bleeding difficult to find. Aziraphale carefully ran his fingertips along the blood soaked fabric, heart thumping in fear as he felt the heat emanating, heat that was a scary indication for a cold-blooded demon like Crowley. After some moments the slowly healing claw marks in Crowley’s chest, the scratches on his arms and legs, the dislocation of his left shoulder all became apparent, as did the bullet hole in his stomach. The angel could only do so much for the demonic wounds, but with a bit of concentration he slid the arm back into place, repaired the rest of the broken ribs, the sickening pops surprising in their inability to rouse the demon.

“C-Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, cupping his friend’s face. Crowley’s face was pinched in pain, his uncovered eyes giving little hint to his level of consciousness. Aziraphale would have to hope the demon stayed under for the rest of his examination, knowing from experience how painful it can be to have a bullet wound tended. Over the years, the wars, the encounters, both had had their fair share of injuries, some more serious than others. Aziraphale had been a soldier once, but much preferred being a medic, and thus his medical experience was more than adequate.

With careful hands the angel unbuttoned and peeled away the clothing over Crowley’s upper body, exposing the claw marks and bullet wound to the too-cold air in the flat. With each tiny shift as Crowley breathed a tiny wave of blood gushed from the wound, slowly dripping over his sides. Aziraphale wet a towel and, gently as he could, ran it over the skin there. Black blood, sticky and thick, came away with each pass. The skin around the wound was red, then black and burned at the center, a stark contrast against Crowley’s steadily paling complexion. Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath and dug around in the first aid kit for supplies, finally finding a pair of forceps.

Aziraphale couldn’t quite tell how long it had been since the fight had occurred, but Crowley would have healed over this bullet wound within an hour under normal circumstances, and less if it had been removed. It was obvious that there was something different about this bullet, and Aziraphale only hoped that removing it would be enough to start up his friend’s healing process.

With a steadying breath Aziraphale placed his left hand to open the wound and slowly inserted the forceps. Crowley flinched under him but didn’t wake, much to the angel’s relief. With some gentle and measured digging, Aziraphale snagged the bullet and extracted it. Though it was coated in the demon’s black blood Aziraphale could tell it was made of silver, the metal giving off a soft holy aura. There were runes inscribed on the sides, and of course another demon, one that knew of Crowley’s supposed resistance to holy water, would go to the next level with a blessed silver bullet. If the shot had been taken just a bit further up, hit anything of vital importance, Crowley would have been gone. Aziraphale carefully wrapped up the bullet and threw it away, moving to put pressure on the wound with the towel.

As the bleeding slowed and color began to return slightly to Crowley’s face, the demon stirred. Aziraphale secured the gauze and began to wrap bandages around his midsection when a bloody hand came to rest atop his. The angel started, eyes snapping to meet Crowley’s yellow ones.

“‘Zira…” Crowley smirked, his voice hoarse but sure. Aziraphale let out a breath, a shaky smile coming to his face.

“Crowley, my dear boy, how are you feeling?” he asked, the demon peering around the bathroom.

“Could be better. Could be worse, too.” Crowley finally replied, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes again. The angel nodded, finishing the wrapping and securing it. Crowley winced, then screwed his eyes shut in concentration. The claw marks on his chest began to stitch closed and soon not a scratch remained. Crowley peered up at Aziraphale and stretched out a hand.

“A little help?”

“I-- I’m not sure sitting up is a good idea at the moment, dear.” Aziraphale started, but eventually gave in at the steady gaze from the demon. With a few curses and a shaky breath Crowley repositioned to leaning back against the bathtub. Aziraphale came to sit beside him, a good foot between them, and snapped his fingers to clean up the mess in the room.

They sat in silence for a moment, breathing and restocking. Eventually Crowley’s hand edged over to Aziraphale’s, pinkies twining, hands coming together, and then his head lowered to rest on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale felt his heart stammer, cheeks heat slightly, but relaxed significantly at the contact. Crowley hummed.

“Thankss, angel.” Crowley whispered, a little hiss slipping through. Aziraphale smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Don’t mention it, love.” the angel replied. They returned to the comfortable silence.

“Y’know, I’ll be all good in about an hour. What do you say we reschedule our date for dinner?” Crowley said, smile clear in his voice.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed happily, letting his head rest atop Crowley’s slightly. “That sounds wonderful.”


End file.
